


Foxhole

by Deejaymil



Category: Original Work
Genre: Australia, Concept Chapter, Fantasy, Gen, Magic, Magic and Science, Magical Realism, Original Fiction, Original Universe, Urban Fantasy, magical university
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: All Elliot Spencer ever wanted to do was make animals.
All he ever actually ended up doing was making trouble. Now there are giant magpies loose in the social science section of the university, and to save them from being disassembled by a crowd of crotchety mages, Elliot's going to have to make a deal with a daimon.
All in all, he's starting to understand why his mum gets so cross with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. This was. Supposed to be my NaNo project: something that I could prune into something publishable eventually. That was the intention. In practise, I wrote this one chapter and then.... panicked. Completely and utterly panicked and could not write a single thing more without thinking myself into a miserable heap of writer huddled under the blanket. So, this is all that exists. And will probably exist. Unless I pull myself together.
> 
> But... I would probably absolutely die of happiness for some feedback on it as a... concept? Possibility? Something? Idk. 
> 
> As a first chapter of an urban fantasy novel... does this work at all?

 

At least once a day, Elliot Spencer considers that the inevitable heat death of the universe has the potential to improve the human race.

It’s not even ten am yet, and he’s already thought twice about this eventuality.

“Elliot, this is _important_. Do pay attention.” There’s a frustrated kind of whine to his mum’s voice right now, the kind that Elliot has long considered the impending warning that means ‘go away and do something elsewhere, quietly.’ A lesson learned early. A lesson he never quite mastered. “Are you even listening to me?”

He’s not. Leaning back in his chair, he examines the roof of her office, huffing a breath of air out between clenched teeth as above the fan _whumps_ around slowly. There are spots on the ceiling, his fault, and pock-marks above the door, also his fault. “Yes, Mum,” he says, because social etiquette requires that he at least make some kind of attempt to answer her, and continues counting the reminders of his past misfortunes.

“Elliot.” Her voice isn’t whiny anymore. It’s taut, sharp, and he sits up automatically and meets her gaze. Thin lips pursed, cheeks gaunt; it’s a discomforting realization to note that his mother has _aged_. Discomforting, and guilt-inspiring. “Please. Your father and I—”

“Are sorely disappointed by your prodigal son?” he tries. She winces, so he softens it with a half-awkward smile, slouching back into his chair and picking at his jeans moodily. Oh his wrist, the heavy yellow band with the university’s logo emblazoned across it thumps down onto his hand. “Mum, look. I can fix it. I just… mixed up my parameters a little. Got a bit overconfident. I’ll stop the—”

Her mouth twitches upwards, very slightly. “Bigpies, I believe you called them?” she says, looking down at the draft of his paper, finger trailing across the title, _An Ineffective Solution to the Problem of Postage: The Invention of the Bigpie._ “Really, El? We’ve had two concussions already. They’re nesting in the social sciences stairwell. They _kick_. No one can get to the computer labs! We have exams soon!”

“Okay, yes, adding emu was a _bit_ of a mistake, but once spring is over the problem should sort itself…” He’s not an idiot, after all. He didn’t make them fertile. “Give me a chance? If I get one more disciplinary action, they’re going to put me on academic probation…”

And they both know what that means. The band on his arm is a stark reminder of that. Her eyes flicker to it, flicker back, and he watches her throat shift as she swallows. Leaning over, he tries to look plaintive, nudging her water bottle towards her with his elbow almost accidentally.

“Chances are all we’ve given you, love.” She thumps back into her chair, for a moment sinking into a slouch as though forgetting he’s there to see it. Paperwork skids across her desk, knocked loose by the _thump_ , and he flexes his hand and catches them in mid-air without shifting from his seat. His mum watches as he straightens the pages without moving, the paper responding easily to his intent. “This is what I’m talking about, Elliot. You’ve got buckets of talent, you’re the youngest here by far, fast-tracked to mastery, and you’re wasting your time on—what is it today? Your new obsession?”

He smiles. He knows it’s a real smile because she softens, those harsh lines and gaunt cheeks becoming familiar and gentle. “I’m thinking gryphons,” he says, ignoring her groan. “To herd the magpies. How cool would that be?” That’ll get him his mastery for sure, especially if his bigpies get—well, he’s not going to let them get _that_ , but that’s not the point.

She grounds him, but that’s never really stopped him before.

 

* * *

 

It’s disgustingly unpleasant for a spring day outside. The Faculty of Magicka is perched on the top of the hill, tucked right back behind the main bulk of the university like an embarrassing alcoholic uncle at Christmas lunch, and it’s a tediously long walk back to the central campus and the dorms.

If there’s one positive to the divide between magic and mundane, it’s that at least the view from up here is nice. And there’s somewhat of a breeze. Elliot pauses on the lip of the hill, shrugging his bag more securely onto his shoulders, and examines the university sprawling below.

“Home sweet home,” he mutters, some small twist in his chest reminding him that he _loves_ this place, from the narrow paths leading through gum tree lined walkways connecting the separate schools, to the disturbingly green lake with the equally as disturbingly aggressive ducks skating along top. On a day like today, with the sun beating down mercilessly just to remind him that there’s a typical summer hurtling their way, he can stand here and look out beyond the green of the heavily forested university perched on the side of the hills, and onto the extensive vista of the city spreading outwards from them right to the sea.

He loves this place, and he’s worryingly close to losing it.

“Mrrp,” mewls a voice by his feet. He looks down right as the cat bumps her head against his ankle, twining through his legs with her tail a sassy flag behind him. Amber-gold eyes meet his as the cat leans her head back to peer up at him, white whiskers vivid on her tabby-marked face. There’s a heavy collar hanging loose around her neck, same colour as the band on his wrist, and he can just see the side of the silver plate engraved with _Felis familias: Magus Spencer_ poking out from under the tuffs of fur covering it.

“Hi, Mia,” he says. “Come to scold me too?”

The cat blinks, slowly. _Well,_ says a voice in the back of his mind, disconcertingly sweet and making his noise itch. _You did ‘accidentally’ let a bunch of magicka-genetically altered beasts out to terrorize the campus. A scolding seems appropriate, seeing as they’re considering shipping you off to boarding school. A solution I wholeheartedly can get behind, by the way._

“Liar,” Elliot says, well aware his mum’s familiar would miss him and his penchant for bringing her home treats if he was sent away. “And I’m working on… fixing that.”

There’s a warble nearby. They both wince.

_Oy vey,_ Mia says, tail swishing. _Perhaps soon, I think. The faculty is having a difficult time… containing them. And you know what will happen if they escape into the general public._

It’s a tempting thought. But, almost certainly guaranteed to upset Mum, and probably even Dad. If the man even notices.

“I’m going,” he mutters, starting down the hill and sighing as the breeze peters away as he enters the stifled shade of the gums. “Want a ride?” Knowing her, she’s probably only here to keep an eye on him, and since he’s not planning on doing anything—overtly—distressing if Mum finds out about it, he may as well indulge her. “Gonna head down to the labs… see if Anderson is there. Maybe he’s figured out how to, um, contain them… non-violently.” He hopes. Going to be hard to write a paper about his observations of his animals if they’re… disassembled.

_RSPCA would have a field day with you,_ Mia replies pertly, leaping up onto his backpack and perching easily with her claws snicking at the firm material. _Come on, then, El. Heat makes me cranky._

“Yes, ma’am,” he says obediently, and breaks into a jog. Another lesson long-learned: never piss off a magical cat.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Spencer, how _fantastic_ that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence.” Anderson sounds ratty. Not surprising, seeing as hardly anyone seems to be pleased with Elliot these days, but still an unhappy occurrence.

_Goodbye, lab privileges,_ Elliot thinks glumly, slinking into the lab with his head low, Mia a light weight on his shoulder. Along the way, magnetically-infused mice scamper in their plastic cages, wide eyes locked on the cat. “Afternoon, Magus Anderson,” he mutters, staring intently at his mentor’s shoes. “How are—”

“Don’t finish that thought, Spencer,” the man replies, those shoes turning on their heels and stalking away, lab coat swirling around his legs. “We gave you twelve hours to come up with a solution to the birds before the faculty took control—it’s been sixteen now. You’re out of time.”

His sketchbook is heavy in his hands, knuckles white around the spiral binding. “I was thinking,” he says, flipping it open. “I mean, maybe I went around this the wrong way. Removing the human aspect from the postal service seems reactionary—what about _gryphons._ ”

Anderson turns again, slowly, and stares. Blue eyes wide under his receding hairline and with the kind of narrow face normally found peeking out nervously from mouse-holes in the wall, Elliot still isn’t sure if he believes that the man is only twenty-eight. “Gryphons,” he says, deadpan, and that should have been Elliot’s first warning.

“Yeah, like a…” Elliot fumbles for the phrase. “Multi-level approach. I raise gryphons, they corral the bigpies, then we train them as postal mounts. I mean, for isolated communities, an airborne mail carrier service is integral and they can offer a level of protection in these uncertain times—”

“Sit.” The word is a command and Elliot responds immediately, sinking onto a stool with his ears burning. Okay, so, not a _perfect_ idea, and it will take… a while to implement, but there’s more to it than— “We are… not _at_ war, per say, but there is one looming terrifyingly close. By the time you are registered, it will very much no longer be looming.” Tugging his lab coat into place, Anderson sinks into the stool opposite, folding his hands sternly in front of him. Instead of the band Elliot wears, his proof of compliancy is a wide-banded ring on his right index finger, shot through with the deep blue of the science-magic school. Elliot stares at it, seething, his own wrist heavy. “This… your magic is interesting, Spencer. It does things we’ve very much never seen before. Your control and finesse with it is unparalleled for a fifteen-year-old, and the sway you seem to hold over non-sentient Animalia is, quite frankly, fascinating. But your approach to it, your absolute refusal to be useful—”

“I _am_ being useful,” Elliot protests. Mia begins to purr against the back of his neck, probably sensing the burning heat rising in his face as his temper threatens to undo him. _Stop it,_ he snaps at himself, shoving his glasses angrily up the bridge of his nose to hide his dismay. Getting angry always makes his eyes red and watery and sore, and he _does_ not need to look like he’s about to cry in front of his mentor. “Why does magic have to be related to the war effort to be useful? Why can’t it just be _fun_?”

Gryphons are fun. Gryphons are _badarse_. And the bigpies could have been awesome too, if he hadn’t been required to add an element of offense just to get the funding to raise them.

_When are you going to tell him how they really escaped?_ Mia asks, peering around his shoulder at the quiet Anderson, politely waiting for Elliot to contain himself. _We both know you’re not so sloppy as to leave the pen unlocked._

“We retain our right to our magic only so long as our interests align with those of the population,” Anderson is saying. Sympathetic, but firm, and Elliot reckons he’s probably had his final ‘final’ chance. “And the population’s interests currently… do not align with _fun_. Your interest in implementing magical solutions to mainstream problems is absurdly idealistic. Commons don’t want nor need us in their everyday lives—the sooner you come to understand that your only use is to the War Effort, the sooner you’ll—Spencer!”

He’ll cop it later, when Anderson tattles on him, but a haughty exit seemed appropriate to avoid his mentor seeing his distress. Mia clings, her purring taking on a sympathetic tone as the lab door rattles shut behind him. _That was rude of you._

“He’s wrong, you know,” Elliot says, heaving in a breath and settling his shoulders firm. Out of time… he needs a _fast_ solution. Or, at least, a diversion… “Commons do need us. If we weren’t touted as _war_ mages, we’d actually have a place that isn’t up on this hill.”

_Oh? And how do you intend upon changing the world, Elliot? You, a fifteen-year-old on the knife’s edge of flunking your magical registration… are you to be the one to usher in this new peaceful time of unity?_

In the distance, there’s a loud warble and a scream.

Yeah, a _real_ fast solution seems appropriate. An idea niggles.

It didn’t go well last time, but he was thirteen then. He’s _fifteen_ now.

How hard could summoning a daimon be?

 

* * *

 

Losing Mia is simple.

Ask her to help find a particular book on ‘magical containment’, and then as she jauntily trots away, he reaches sideways into the part of the world where, to Elliot at least, the magic thrums. Like… reaching around a corner of a brick alleyway, where the wind is gusting in. Most of his body is shielded from it, pressed against the wall, but his arm is immersed in the stinging breeze.

At least, that’s the only way he’s ever been able to verbalize it, and no one else has repeated his trick.

But once he’s reached into that stream of power, it’s a simple task to coax it into doing what he wants it to. Whether that’s pulling something towards him without lifting a finger, or shifting the very essence of an animal to contain the traits _he_ wants it to… or folding the air around himself and shielding himself from a nosy cat’s vision, containing any sound or scent in this pocket of being. He walks past her, unseen, and jogs between the stacks, heading for the section he needs.

Heavily shielded except for those with permission to read the tomes within, but that’s fine, Elliot hasn’t found a shielding on the campus yet made with enough care to stop _him_. Not even when he was a kid, and his interests lay simply in sneaking into the café kitchen and stealing the ice blocks from the humming freezer.

“Pardon me,” he murmurs, splaying his hand against the door of the request only room, feeling the shields layered heavily into the wood spit and spark in reaction to his touch. The door _hums_ , angry with his intent to enter without permission. _Go away_ the door would be saying, if it could speak, and Elliot smiles, reaches into the magic, and simply _asks._

_Please?_

Being polite, he’s found, gets him plenty far enough. Even with magic. _Especially_ with magic.

There’s a waiting moment as the magic within the door considers. The door itself is firm, assured of its purpose— _no entry—_ but magic is so much more flexible than a hunk of dead wood.

_Okay_ the magic responds, and the lock clicks open, swinging back just far enough that Elliot can slide in, pushing it closed again before Mia can see it move.

Piece of cake.

He peers around the musty room. It’s nowhere near as tidy in here. There’s an abandoned trolley pushed up against the three wonky desks. The walls are claustrophobically covered in books, not an inch of space free, the tomes wedged in so tight into the tiny space that it’s going to take two hand just to brace enough to yank one out. Footsteps muffled on the dusty carpet, Elliot strides into the room, turning sideways to inch between the desks and eyeing the trolley warily. That trolley means _someone_ is coming back, probably Edwards and his disconcerting ability to see right through every visibility spell Elliot’s mastered, even this one. The guy _knows_ shadows, and he knows how they should move, and if he’s here today, Elliot wants to be elsewhere as soon as possible.

The fact that he’s a bullying tool helps a little with that determination.

_Cryptozoology_ says the tattered label stuck to the shelf he’s looking for, written in felt tip on masking tape. _Humanoid crypids—restricted_. Half the titles are in Latin, half in Koine Greek, a subset of parchments in Old English rolled up and shoved in every spare space …

There it is. He tugs the book out, thin and tattered from a millennia of hands paging through the delicate pages. The title is simple, a gilded δαιμόνιον on the leather cover.

Daimonion.

His Greek is… rusty.

He’s starting to have a niggling memory that this was what messed him up last time. Except, Latin that time. _This is why you need to pay attention in language class,_ his mother had raged, as she supervised him repainting the lounge room of their family suite in the living quarters of the university. _Don’t just **guess** , Elliot._

“I’m not _really_ guessing,” he reassures himself, flipping through the labelled pages. He _knows_ what the classes of daimon are. “Agathodaímōn, Kakodaímōn, Eudaímōn… good, bad, and also good. Maybe. I think.” It just depends, really, whether he wants guidance or…

On second thoughts, he went for a guidance daimon last time. And blew up the living room.

“Agathodaímōn it is,” he says, glancing back at the silent doorway as he flips to the page labelled ἀγαθοδαίμων. A personal guardian spirit. Bound to help him without him having to use a binding spell, _perfect_.

The page is, of course, in Greek… huffing in frustration, he glances back at the clock. He’ll have to take the book downstairs, risk being seen, take it to the language section, translate the damn page to find out which of the daimon names are associated with which ‘helping’. Won’t be any damn use if he summons a spirit who specializes in something _useless_ like… love, or money, or finding lost socks. Snapping the book shut, he turns, a flicker of movement at his feet drawing his attention.

A scrap of paper. Fallen from the book when he closed it… he crouches, scooping up the yellowed snippet and studying it.

English.

_The daimon Anser χήν/khēn – communicator, navigator, protector of flock, fly true, healer??. To summon, follow:_

The instructions underneath are deliciously simple. And simple is good. If there’s one thing Elliot’s learned about daimons, it’s that the simpler the incantation to call them, the _better_. Good daimons want to be summoned. They make it simple. And hey, flock? Perfect!

_Taking shortcuts again,_ he can imagine his mum saying, but he can also hear dogs barking outside, and he’s horribly aware that his bigpies are probably running out of time.

Anser it is, then. Hopefully, he’s only a _little_ daimon.

 

* * *

 

He’s a little daimon.

“Oh boy,” Elliot says, lowering the scrap of paper and staring at his new daimon. “Hi… buddy. Look at you.”

The daimon sniffs, peering around his cramped dorm-room, everything shoved against the wall to make space for the summoning circle. Harshly cropped hair sticking up in feathery tufts of greyish brown, frighteningly pale skin scattered with dark freckles, and a weirdly… elongated sort of look to his thick neck, perched on top of a stocky body. Elliot stares at the daimon, who stares back with dark, cold eyes set into a round face. He’s… small.

Very small.

The kind of small best defined as ‘hi, I’m Anser and today I’m turning six-years-old’ kind of small.

“Is that an Xbox?” is the first thing the daimon Anser ever says to him, his wide mouth turning up into some kind of pointed smile. The kind of smile someone makes when they’ve only ever heard the concept ‘smiling’ described to them before trying to replicate it. “Do you have Gears of War? Can I play it?”

“Uh,” says Elliot, verbose as always, and looks back down at the scrap of paper. “Anser?”

“Yes?” The answer is delivering in a whiny kind of huff, the daimon’s eyes locked greedily on the console. “That’s me. I’m Anser.”

“Uh,” Elliot says again, his brain abandoning him. “Uh.”

Anser’s beady eyes narrow dangerously. “Are you normally this stupid, or are you having a bad day?” he asks, inching closer to the side of the summoning circle and scuffing his bare feet—wide and splayed with stumpy toes—against the painted line. “Get on with it. Whatcha want for the Xbox?”

His brain clicks back on. “You’re not taking my Xbox!” he exclaims, straightening. “Uh, daimon Anser, I, Elliot Spencer of Adelaide Uncommon University, School of Magic, have summoned you here—”

“Bla bla, yes, yes, summoned, need something, whatcha want, curls? Come on, hurry up.”

He’s being rushed. By a daimon that looks barely out of pre-school. Daimon pre-school. Pre-daimon-school? Running his hand self-consciously through his wild brown curls, Elliot snaps, “I need you to help me hide some… animals. Please. And in return you can… play my Xbox. For a little while.” At least, until the circle gets broken and he gets sent back to… pre-daimon-school.

Answer blinks slowly, cocking his head to the side. “Animals being the toothy kind?” he asks, eyes darting around the room. “Oh wait, Australian… animals being the venomous kind?”

“Noo…” Elliot trials off on the _oooo_ , taking a deep breath. “I may have, uh, made some. Birds. Large birds. And if I don’t hide them somewhere they can’t, uh, escape, they’re going to be… disassembled.”

There’s a lingering kind of silence. “Well,” Anser says finally, shaking himself and stepping forward with another unsettling smile. His toe nudges the edge of the circle. “We can’t have that then; I am _fond_ of birds. Why can’t _you_ hide them? You have the potential.”

Ah. Here it is.

Well, at least a daimon won’t go tattling. “I might have added a little of my magic into them,” he admits stiffly, wincing as the daimon rocks gleefully back onto his heels. “They can… do what I can do. Shape… magic.”

“Oooh.” Anser smiles, toes gripping the carpet. “Naughty, Elliot. Well… let’s go wrangle some birdies. A deal is a deal is a deal after all…” There’s a _snick_ in the air, in that off-side place where the magic is, and Elliot swallows hard. _Deal made, you’re stuck with him now._

He leans forward to open the circle, to let his new ‘friend’ out, and Anser laughs. It’s a laugh as off-putting as his smile.

And he steps out of the unopened circle, walking calmly to the door. “Hurry up, curls,” he says with a grin. He shouldn’t be able to do that. He should not be able to do that.

Not unless he’s…

Not a daimon.

_Oh,_ Elliot thinks first, followed by, _I think I’ve fucked up._

_Again._


End file.
